


The Carpathian Ridge

by Corbeaun



Category: Highlander: The Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-12
Updated: 2007-12-12
Packaged: 2017-11-01 19:15:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/360290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corbeaun/pseuds/Corbeaun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When their transit goes horrifically wrong, Duncan, Joe and one mysterious 'Adam Pierson' is dropped straight into the middle of a disrupted scheme by the Russian mafia, led by the Immortal Ivan Kristov – an Immortal whose Immortality is unaccountably changed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Carpathian Ridge

**Author's Note:**

> Written for beeej in the hlh_shortcuts holiday fic exchange, [here](http://community.livejournal.com/hlh_shortcuts/9304.html).
> 
> Much thanks to the lovely amand_r for the beta.

"Are you sure you don't want to come?" Duncan murmured in her ear, drawing her closer to him in bed.

Anne smiled and put her hand against his jaw. Already, his morning stubble rasped against the skin of her palm. They had just finished a very enjoyable bout of lovemaking, even though neither of them had the time to linger as long as they liked – Duncan had a trans-Atlantic flight to catch, and Anne... Well, she had things to take care of at the hospital. Especially given the questions one 'John Kirin' had incited with his miraculous resurrection.

"You know I want to," she told him haltingly, running her fingers along his kiss-flushed mouth. "But I have obligations I can't dodge. Don't worry," she added with a wry smile, "I'll still be here when you come back."

Duncan sighed. He'd known her answer beforehand, of course, which was why he hadn't really asked until just now. Unlike an artist, Dr. Anne Lindsey was hardly the kind of woman to drop everything for an impromptu trip to exotic locales. And, he had to admit to himself, the trip was quite sudden – he himself had only decided two days ago to make the flight. But Duncan would have felt better if she had by some miracle actually agreed to go with him. The enthusiastic sex aside, theirs was still a delicate relationship in the aftermath of Kirin and Duncan's refusal to explain to her about the exact nature of the healing. And every instinct told him that leaving her to herself now was a bad idea.

Gently, he pushed a tendril of hair out of her eyes. "If you're sure," he said, and kissed her.

With a hand on his neck, Anne drew him down to her, drawing out the kiss until they were both a bit breathless. Pulling back for air, she murmured against his lips, "Maybe you can bring back a souvenir." Her voice fell half an octave. "Show me what I missed."

As Duncan reached for her waist, ready to show her now and then what she would miss, a heavy volley of knocks at the front door startled them apart. For Duncan, the added buzz in his head propelled him out of the bed, naked, a hand already grasping his katana.

Anne clambered out of bed, clutching the bed-sheets to her chest.

"Were you expecting anyone?" Duncan demanded curtly. It was her apartment.

She shook her head mutely, white about the eyes. Her attention was fixed on the deadly length of steel in his hands.

The knocking on the door had stopped, but the buzz had not gone away. Seeing how the unknown immortal hadn't immediately burst through the door, Duncan took a quick minute to pull on last night's discarded trousers. "Stay here," he told Anne, and slipped out of the bedroom, his katana securely in hand.

He flung open the front door.

The young man on the doorstep took a quick step back, his hands in the air. "Whoa there, Mac!"

Duncan let out a breath, exasperated. He let his sword fall from the young man's throat. "Richie," he muttered, putting the sword behind his back, conscious of the potential eyes of Anne's neighbors. "What are you doing here?"

"Jesus." Richie touched his neck gingerly, looking dubious when his fingers came away unmarked by blood. "Who were you expecting?"

Duncan waved him into the apartment. He was still half-naked, after all, and Anne lived in a rather family-orientated building. He hoped Anne wouldn't mind. "It's just Richie," he called down the hall to her. To Richie, he said, "It's been a few stressful days. How'd you know where to find me anyway?"

Richie flopped down on the living room sofa. "Went over to Joe's," he grinned. "He let drop you were with your lady friend."

Anne came out just then, clad in a pair of old jeans and a t-shirt. To Duncan's eyes, she still looked a bit shaken, but she greeted Richie with a gracious smile. "Hello. Richie Ryan, is it?" She held out a hand for him to shake. The young man had hurriedly stood up at her entrance and now took her hand with an abashed flush. Possibly, he just realized what he'd intruded on.

"Uh, morning, 'mam," he stammered.

Duncan rolled his eyes, affectionately exasperated. "So Richie," he raised his voice slightly, "What brings you here?" His eyes followed Anne as she disappeared into the kitchen.

"Oh, I had an accident. Need resources for a new id. Uh." Richie stopped himself abruptly. Then he gestured from kitchen to the sword still in Duncan's hand. "You told her about...you know what, right?"

Duncan shook his head briefly. She had been close enough to him in the last few months to know that he was not exactly normal, but what specifically, he had not yet felt the right time to fully explain. And Anne had promised not to ask.

Anne came out just then, keys in hand. "I need to go to the hospital. Duncan, you know where everything is, just lock up when you leave. And Richie, it was nice seeing you." She kissed Duncan on the cheek and left.

Both Immortals waited until they heard the front door close.

"So you need contacts? Money?" Duncan asked. He walked around the sofa to the kitchen where Anne's fancy cappuccino machine was percolating. The aroma of the morning brew smoothed some of his pique at the morning chaos.

"Right," Richie agreed. "And I need them fast."

The machine beeped and he accepted a cup of plain coffee gratefully, tucking his katana under his arm to do so. "Trouble?" he said, walking back to the living room where Richie was.

The young man looked abashed from his slouch on the sofa. "Just...the accident was rather public."

Duncan groaned. From Richie's tone, he knew it was an understatement. "How public?" He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

"Uh...six o'clock news public?"

He set the cup down on the coffee table. 

"Richie."

Richie winced. He and Duncan had had a long, detailed discussion about his reckless predilection for motorcycle races. "Look, Mac, I know. And I'm sorry, okay? I shoulda listened, but, well," he shrugged helplessly, "things got outta hand."

He did look honestly contrite.

Duncan sighed, and tore a page from an old newspaper that was lying around. After finding a pen, he wrote down a name and an address. "Here," he pushed the piece paper at the young man. "He'll give you the documents you need, and some spare cash. Just mention my name."

Richie glanced at it and tucked it into his jeans pocket. "Thanks. Uh, you're not going back to the dojo?" Apparently, he had just noticed Duncan's old, familiar travel bag lying against the sofa.

Duncan sat back on Anne's sofa and took a sip of the warm, bitter brew. The katana lay cold and hard across his lap. "I have to catch up with an old friend," he said only.

 

* * *

"Thanks for telling Richie where I was this morning," Duncan commented dryly as he sat down beside Joe in the first-class cabin. Most of the spacious, first-class seats were empty and, after take-off, he easily switched from his original seat to one next to Joe.

They'd kept their distance at the airport and during boarding in case any Watchers saw them – things were heating up again at Watcher Headquarters over fraternization with Immortals, and Duncan didn't want to give Joe any more trouble than he already had over their friendship. But he deemed it safe enough to interact in the privacy of first-class.

"Hey, I was just trying to get him out of my bar," Joe grinned. "Kid doesn't look a day over eighteen." He didn't say anything about the danger of having yet another Immortal seen in his vicinity.

"Drinks, sirs?" the flight attendant asked, leaning over Duncan.

Duncan smiled at the pretty redhead. "Just mineral water is fine, thank you."

Joe raised a hand. "I'd love some champagne. What?" he said, seeing Duncan's stare, "I always wanted to try it 30,000 feet up in the air." When the flight attendant brought over a sparkling flute, Joe toasted it in Duncan's direction. "I have to say this, Mac: You sure travel in style."

Duncan sipped at his own glass of plain water. "I just thought you might be getting tired of being crammed in coach all these years," he said. He didn't usually travel in first-class either; business class was often good enough for him. But he had seen Joe wincing lately on his prosthetics and thought the roominess of first-class seats would alleviate some of the discomfort of a twenty-hour flight.

"So," Joe looked thoughtfully at him, "How's things working between you and the doctor?" And he added, "Off the record, of course."

Duncan sighed. "Honestly? I don't know." He tipped the glass in his hand towards him, the overhead lights catching and sparkling on the rim. "Things have been...strange, awkward, ever since the Kirin incident. She promised no questions, but..." And even knowing it was uncharitable and unfair of him, he couldn't stop himself from thinking it was never like this in the beginning with Tessa. His mouth tightened unhappily.

"Hey." Duncan looked up to see Joe regarding him with painful understanding. Tessa had never had the chance to know Joe, but Joe had definitely known her. "These things take time," Joe said quietly.

Duncan nodded at everything Joe had left unsaid. "I know," he replied, equally quiet.

An awkward silence fell between them until Joe abruptly slapped his hands on his thighs. "I think I'll take a walk," he said, grabbing his cane, "Stretch these legs." 

Duncan nodded again, not saying anything, and watched as Joe limped out of the cabin. Afterwards, he closed his eyes and leaned his head against the airline seat. There were other pressing issues he needed to focus on, things that were not his romantic troubles. Specifically, what he planned to do once he reached Budapest and heard what Brother Paul had to say about the Immortal psychopath, Kalas. He didn't expect to actually encounter Kalas for this trip, as Brother Paul hadn't sounded all that anxious over the phone, the comment about Kalas' whereabouts sounding more like an afterthought than anything else – Duncan had even been offered a standing invitation to hear the choir perform for the public. The monk had chuckled when Duncan had expressed concerns over him leaving Holy Ground for the first time in centuries. In any case, Duncan fully intended to be there when Brother Paul left the monastery with his choir for the concert hall...

He woke with a start.

It was the metallic ring of forks against plate that had startled him out of his doze. Looking around, he saw that the other first-class passengers were already dining on their pre-ordered suppers. Duncan frowned when he didn't see Joe anywhere.

The same pretty redhead attendant hurried over as his gesture. "Would you like your dinner, sir?" she asked.

Duncan shook his head. "No. Have you seen my friend? He left," he glanced down at his watch, "a while ago and I'm not sure if he's come back."

"A Mr. Joe Dawson?" she said, and continued at seeing his nod, "He came back when we made a brief fueling stop at Colorado but went out again. I believe he's currently in the coach section."

He thanked her distractedly, then stood up from his seat and walked out of the cabin. Outside, the lights were dimmed in the aisles, and there was an old movie playing silently on the large screen. He moved cautiously between the dark, crowded aisles, stepping over people's outstretched legs and the occasional dropped pillows. He looked for Joe's distinctive salt and pepper hair from among the sea of drowsy heads.

The sudden, discordant thrum of an Immortal Presence arrested him mid-step.

"Damn," he muttered softly. His sword hand clenched involuntarily at his side, feeling the phantom grip of the katana that was currently lying in baggage. This close, it was impossible to pinpoint the direction from which the Presence came, and whoever the Immortal was, he was being cagey enough not to react to Duncan's own Presence.

Duncan was suddenly conscious of how he stood out standing still in the aisle and resolutely began moving again. "Come on, Joe," he muttered, "where are you?" The blood pounded in his ear, almost drowning out the thrum of Immortal Presence, his muscles tensing, as he began to suspect foul play.

Then incongruously, he heard a familiar, warm, raspy chuckle.

"I say, Jillian, you've certainly learned a thing or two since the last time we played."

Duncan cleared an aisle to see Joe sitting with a young, longhaired woman, each holding a hand of playing cards. A third hand of cards lay abandoned on a tray. "Joe!" He couldn't stop the brief tinge of reproof in his voice.

Joe raised an eyebrow, hearing it. "Hey Mac," he greeted him calmly. "Glad to see you got some sleep."

Duncan glanced around tightly, but didn't see a likely source of the Presence. "Hi," he said curtly to the woman. Seeing the almost reverential way the stranger – Jillian, Joe had called her – was regarding him, Duncan had an uncomfortable suspicion she was part of the tattoo-bearing crowd. "You a friend of Joe's?" he demanded. Just his luck, another Immortal and his Watcher. He wondered if he was foolhardy to have approached Joe in the other Watcher's presence.

He wondered how he hadn't sensed the other Immortal until now.

Joe looked uncomfortable, but answered for the woman. "Yeah," he said, rubbing his wrist, "That same, old crowd." He turned to the other Watcher and folded his cards. "Let's finish our card game when we're all in Paris," Joe told her. "And tell Adam to drink more water; it helps with flight sickness."

The woman agreed, and together Joe and Duncan made their way back to the first-class cabin. Once back in their seats, Duncan finally spoke, "So, who is 'Jillian' watching?"

A burst of laughter escaped Joe. "What?"

"She's a Watcher," Duncan said, feeling tense, "so who is she watching?" Now that he knew another Immortal was on the aircraft, he could feel the telltale thrum in the back of his head even from this distance.

Joe raised his hands helplessly. "Uh, Mac, Jillian's not in the field. She's a secretary." 

"I felt the Presence."

Joe frowned. "Besides Jillian and her boyfriend, I didn't see any of our other people." He rubbed his beard thoughtfully. "It could be an unknown Immortal, someone new or one who's managed to dodge us."

Duncan refused to be distracted; where the Watcher organization was concerned, oftentimes Joe left things out. "This boyfriend...He a secretary too?" Duncan knew he was interrogating his friend – and by all rights, Joe didn't have to tell him any of this – but something about the unknown Immortal's Presence bothered him.

Joe looked a little startled. "Adam? Nah, he's a researcher. Great with the languages. Not too good with flying." He tapped his fingers on the armrest, looking thoughtful. "I'll have someone run a check on the passenger list once we land, see if we can catch the Immortal we've missed."

Duncan grimaced, not too sure how he felt about having a hand in putting yet another Immortal under the voyeuristic eyes of the Watchers. 

"But it's definitely not a new Immortal," he said, almost to himself. 

Joe caught that mutter, and looked intrigued. "What do you mean?"

But Duncan shook his head, not replying. Just like Joe and the secrets of his Watcher organization, there were some things about the exact nature of Immortality that Duncan refused to discuss with his Watcher friend. Some things should be kept only among Immortals.

At his lack of response, Joe sighed and then shrugged. "Okay. Never mind. Can we get some dinner please?" He gestured to the flight attendant.

The redhead hurried over and smiled apologetically. "It'll be right with you, sir," she said and disappeared through the curtain to the galley.

At that moment, the entire plane shuddered. Those who had been standing in the cabin grabbed at the nearest thing to them. Trays were knocked onto the floor, spilling half-eaten dishes on the carpet.

As cries of alarm filled the cabin, echoed by those outside, the captain's comm crackled into life. 

"We apologize, but we are currently experiencing some turbulence. Please return to your seats and fasten your safety belts."

Joe frowned and he did as instructed. "What's going on?" he asked Duncan just as the plane groaned again.

Both he and Duncan were seasoned travelers by now, and what was happening was not normal. The movie on the big screen in front had stopped, and the light of the blue screen seemed to cast the entire cabin underwater, tinging everyone's faces blue-green. Then a cracking sound, and a black screen. Somewhere behind them, a woman started crying softly.

Duncan gritted his teeth as another shudder jolted his vertebrae. He felt the pressure build up against his eyeballs as the plane began to dive.

Above head, the last lights flickered and went out. Darkness.

And then they were in free fall.

Duncan had just enough time to see the top of the plane shear off, metal and wind screaming, as he twisted desperately toward Joe, trying to shield him with his body.

Red-hot pain seared through him. And then – 

Nothing.

 

* * *

He woke, choking on his own blood.

He couldn't speak or move his legs.

"Shh, it's okay Mac."

Hands pressed against his hips, pushing tendons and pieces of bones together. Nerve-scouring agony made the world momentarily white out. In the distance, he heard Joe's voice continuing speaking to him, calm and steady.

After what seemed like an eternity, the pain receded and he could think again. "Joe?" His throat was sore.

"I'm here, Mac. You're okay."

He opened his eyes and saw black smoke bellowing across an impossibly blue sky.

"There's no other survivors from the cabin," Joe said quietly. One of his prosthetic legs twisted awkwardly beneath him, the plastic charred and cracked. "I couldn't climb out to see the other passengers."

Blood loss made the world spin as Duncan lurched to his feet. He leaned against a nearby wreckage of a seat as Immortal healing mended the last of his torn flesh. Around him, the still-standing walls of the first-class cabin curved in like a half-cracked egg. Above head, through the torn off ceiling, the sky was a robin's egg blue. Peering over the ridge of seats that had most likely saved Joe's life and possibly his own – an unlucky piece of shrapnel could take off his head as easily as a sword – Duncan saw that the cabin had snapped neatly from the rest of the plane. A stretch of white separated them from the twisted wreckage of the body of the plane.

Something cold and wet landed on his eyelid, and he blinked, stretching out a hand as a snowflake landed and melted in his palm. They were far above sea level. 

"I'll be back," Duncan told Joe and climbed up and out of the cabin.

The layer of new-fallen snow crunched beneath his ruined shoes as he made his way to the rest of the plane. He came across the first body a few meters away from the cabin. It was the pretty, redheaded flight attendant, torso flung over a broken tree branch. In her hands, she still clutched part of a tray. Kneeling, he turned the woman over to her side, but the angle of her neck told Duncan she was already gone.

He came across many bodies after that. 

"Can anyone hear me?" Duncan yelled despairingly, after finding the ash-charred remains of what was once a child's shoe. "Is anyone alive?" But only the crack and pop of isolated spots of fires from burning trees answered him.

He trudged relentlessly on, his heart falling heavier with each dead body he continued to find.

Then he abruptly stopped, shaking his head. A thrum sounded between his ears, low but persistent. "The other Immortal," he whispered to himself, and took off at a run in the direction of the Presence.

He first saw the sheared off remains of an airplane wing, jutting out into the sky. Something small and limp lay at its base.

It was the woman Watcher, facedown and motionless under the debris.

And pinned next to her, one arm flung almost protectively over the woman's back, was the origin of the Presence. The Immortal had already noticed Duncan.

He bared his teeth in a bloodstained grimace, blue healing sparks leaping over his ruined face. "Take my head, if that's what you're after," he rasped. "Just make it quick."

Duncan turned the Watcher onto her back and, seeing the face already slack with death, gently closed the woman's eyes. He turned to the Immortal. "I've no use for your head," Duncan replied wearily. Then he grabbed the end of the airplane wing that was pinning down the Immortal's entire right side and heaved.

The Immortal screamed.

Metal lifted from flesh and sinew, charred beyond recognition.

But the weight was too much. Duncan's fingers, slick with blood and ash, slipped from the wing, metal shrieking like the sky falling all over again. Finally, silence, and the heavy sound of two men panting. Then:

"Cut it off."

The other Immortal was breathing through gritted teeth, pale beneath his fright mask of blood and gore. His arm remained pinned beneath the debris.

Duncan straightened from his slump against the airplane wing. He had been looking for a way to lever the weight. "What?" he asked incredulously. 

"Use a piece of shrapnel and cut off my arm."

The man was crazed with the pain. Duncan only shook his head and leaned back against the wing, prepared to try again.

"Damn you! Give me something sharp and I'll do it myself! Something's about to blow – I can feel the heat." It remained unsaid that a piece of debris shearing off his head would turn him as dead as any mortal.

Duncan paused. He hadn't noticed, but the air wasn't nearly as cold as before. There really was something burning.

"We're Immortal, you fool," the trapped man rasped. "I'll heal."

"An entire limb?" Duncan said incredulously. And unless the other Immortal was left-handed, he'd be losing his sword arm. Not to mention the insidious loss of balance. A death sentence.

"There are ways."

The air was getting noticeably hotter now.

Duncan stared at the other Immortal. The man's mouth was tight with pain, but his eyes were clear and lucid.

"All right," Duncan finally said slowly and, kneeling, he grabbed the piece of sharp metal lying at his feet and thrust it under the Immortal's ribcage. The man didn't even look surprised as he died. Then Duncan found a larger piece of metal and quickly set to work hacking away the man's arm.

The fuel tank exploded just as Duncan finished dragging both himself and the body behind cover. Shrapnel flew, one large piece as big as a claymore hurtling through the space both Immortals had just been. Duncan took a deep, shuddering breath, and began to traverse the long way back to the shelter of the cabin.

Joe clutched the ridge of seats when Duncan climbed back down inside the cabin, the body in his arms. "Who –?" He cut himself off when he saw the bloody face.

"No other survivors. Also, the Watcher was already dead," Duncan said shortly, "and I'm guessing this one's 'Adam'?" 

Joe's hand shook as he brushed the charred and bloody hair away from Adam's death-still face. He touched the ripped flesh around the buried shrapnel. "Yeah," he muttered, passing his hand over his face. "But why did you –"

"He's not dead." And saying so, Duncan grabbed the piece of metal that was stopping the Immortal's heart and yanked it out of his chest. Joe stared as blue sparks immediately began dancing over the gaping wound.

"My god," Joe whispered.

The body came alive with a jerk and a scream.

Duncan grabbed the man's flailing legs. A random blow from the remaining arm nearly took his head off. "Joe! Grab his arm!" The hacked-off stump of the right arm had started bleeding again, and Immortal healing sparked helplessly over severed muscles, tendons and bones. Duncan refused to let go, holding the Immortal immobile beneath him. "Hold him still!"

The body beneath him abruptly slumped over. Cautiously, Duncan straightened from his crouch.

"Is he dead?" Joe asked unsteadily, not releasing his grip on the arm.

Duncan shook his head, feeling the soft, answering thrum of Presence. "No, just unconscious." He grabbed the end of his tattered shirt and tore a long strip from it. "Here," he said to Joe, "help me wrap this around the stump. We need to stop the bleeding." The convulsions had lost Adam even more blood. Even Immortal healing had its limits, and with the limited resources at hand, Duncan knew it would be a long time before either he or Adam could fully replenish their blood loss.

Adam came around just as they finished binding his stump. The blue sparks had finally faded, and the stain of blood on the bandage stopped spreading. 

Duncan felt the moment the other Immortal surged into consciousness. Like the jarring thrum of an old harp, quickly pressed into echoes.

"Adam?" he said cautiously, prepared to hold him down again if the convulsions restarted. 

The man's eyes opened, strikingly light against his ash-and-blood smeared face. "That's me. Oh, hello, Joe. Guess you know about me now."

Joe only looked at him. "Jillian's dead."

The man closed his eyes. "I know," he said simply.

His eyes remained closed and, after a moment, Duncan could tell from the change in his breathing that he had fallen asleep. Duncan grabbed a tattered blanket from a pile Joe had apparently scrounged, and pulled it over him to keep his body temperature up. He and the other Immortal needed to be as recovered as possible when the rescue team found them. Otherwise, if there were still any unhealed wounds, difficult questions about their later disappearance might arise.

Although Adam might just be content to play dead and escape to a new identity. Duncan had no idea about the other Immortal-cum-Watcher.

Joe slumped against the wreckage of a seat behind him. He pulled his own blanket tighter around himself, shivering. The sky overhead was already falling into darkness. The cabin walls blocked out the worst of the shrieking wind.

"We'll need to stay here," Joe said quietly.

Duncan nodded, agreeing, also wrapping a blanket around himself. It was the correct response to a plane crash: stay as close as possible to the wreck and wait for the rescue team to find the crash site.

Suddenly he straightened. "Do you hear that?" he asked.

Joe tensed too. "What? Hear what?"

It was the low whirling sound of an approaching small aircraft.

"The rescue team?" Joe asked, but he sounded dubious.

Duncan shook his head. No rescue team would fly up over the perilous mountain peaks in this dark of night, with this wind; it was foolish and dangerous.

"The crash wasn't accidental," he muttered, remembering the way all power had abruptly shorted out just before the plane fell. And looking at the constellations overhead, he suddenly realized that they were further north than he'd thought.

He nudged the other Immortal awake. The other man's eyes shot open, irises almost glowing in the dark. "We've company," Duncan murmured. Somewhere, beyond the wreck of the first-class cabin, he heard the aircraft land in the darkness.

He rose to a half-crouch, peering over the ridge of seats that was currently hiding them from view. Behind him, he heard Adam rise and do the same.

The wind had stopped and the night was now eerily quiet and bright as armed and gray-geared men spilled out of the open hatchway of a distinctively military-styled aircraft and began combing the area. Duncan cursed softly under his breath when a pair of mercenaries – for that was definitely what the men were – turned in their direction. 

He fell back down behind the seats. The stars shone through a jagged opening in the cabin walls, opposite the approaching men. A thick forest lay beyond in the darkness, a sufficient cover at this short notice. "Two approaching. Get Joe out of here," Duncan said tersely to the other Immortal, and turned to rise from behind the seats.

Adam grabbed him by the arm. "What are you doing?" he growled. "That's the wrong direction!"

Duncan shook his hand away impatiently. There was a definite suspicion in his mind that these newcomers would not like witnesses. And only a few hours ago, Duncan had left a trail of footsteps in the new fallen snow, leading directly from the main body of the wreckage to their cabin. It wouldn't be long before one of the mercs noticed it.

"I'll lead them away. Like you said," he murmured, "we're Immortals. At most, they'll just shoot me."

"And a high-powered rifle to your head will decapitate you as utterly as any sword," the other Immortal whispered furiously.

"Mac, no," Joe cried softly behind him.

In the distance, he heard one of the men shout to another – some Slavic language, Duncan noted absently. They'd found the footprints.

"It's a risk I'm willing to take," Duncan concluded quietly. "Keep Joe safe."

And, bracing himself, he climbed over the seats. The two men were only five meters away, and their guns instantly swung toward him.

Duncan slowly raised his hands in the universal language of surrender. One of the men approached him, gun trained on Duncan's heart. 

Behind him, he heard two muffled thuds as Adam helped Joe down, out the cabin and into the snow.

But by then, one mercenary was only a meter away. Close enough to react to the sound. His eyes shot to the trees and he opened his mouth to yell.

Duncan didn't have time to think: he struck out, a crushing blow across the man's neck. The man fell choking, his automatic firing wildly into the air. The second man immediately let lose a volley of bullets at the spot Duncan had been, eyes widening when Duncan suddenly appeared beside him, fist slamming into his temple.

The rapid gunfire had alerted the rest of the squad and more men spilled past the wreckage, guns raised. A hail of new bullets sent the snow flying through the air, lowering visibility and actually helping Duncan as he ran, fast and low, across the snow-covered terrain. _Divert, divert_ , he repeated to himself.

And suddenly he was right amid a cluster of men, their aim hampered by the bodies of their own comrades. There was confusion, random gunfire. Snow flew into the air. Men shouted and tried to grab him. Someone caught him. Duncan jabbed his elbow in the face of the man behind him, sending bone shards up the man's brain. As the dying man's arms slipped from him, he spun and slammed his leg across someone's gun hand, cracking wrist and arm bones. As if through a haze, he saw one man standing apart from the melee. _Cut off the head_ , the old battle instinct flared through him. He grabbed the handgun someone had dropped, aimed, fired – 

A bullet stung his face, close enough to take off skin. The impact of the second jerked his arm back, sending his weapon flying. The third hurled him backwards into the snow, left knee screaming as it gave out –

Men grabbed him, twisting his arms behind his back. The wrenching pain made the world momentarily white out. When Duncan struggled, one man backhanded him, breaking his nose and cheekbone. Blood splattered, hissing in the snow. He choked, trying to breathe through his mouth.

Boots creaked on the packed ice before him. "Well, well."

Duncan's head snapped up at the familiar, Cossack voice.

The last time he'd heard that voice he had been riding away, furious and betrayed, from a burning farmhouse in then Czarist Russia. The man had been Immortal then. Yet Duncan felt nothing, no Presence at all. The only Immortal miles around should have been long gone, stumbling down the mountain with Joe.

But the stance, the attitude, that same, ugly swagger that Duncan hadn't realized in time of a butcher who enjoyed killing for its own sake so long as the victims couldn't fight back...

There was no mistake.

Ivan Kristov stood well and alive gazing down at him, holding a handkerchief to what should have been a death wound to a mortal. Duncan watched, incredulous, as the man took his hand away from his neck and he saw the edges of what looked like a paper-cut close over like water lapping over stone. It was exactly like Immortal healing, except there were no sparks and not even a hint of Kristov's Presence in his head. None of the surrounding men looked surprised.

"What did you do to yourself?" Duncan growled.

Kristov shook his head, looking almost amused. His mouth was hard and cruel, with impossible lines around them that aged him decades. "Still the same dour Scot, I see." He grabbed Duncan's chin; blue sparks leapt over his fingers. Already, Immortal healing had knitted together the broken bones of Duncan's face. "Did you know," Kristov murmured, "that the mortals have developed a drug that makes them superhuman – almost immortal? Doesn't affect us in the same way, of course. But," he smirked at Duncan, "at least one of the effects for Immortals came quite handy."

"Who are you working for, Kristov?" Duncan demanded, glaring into his eyes. "Were you responsible for the death of all these people?"

"You'll have to blame the United States government for that one – who knew the things my girl stole could be so volatile? She'd given me some fascinating concoctions before..." Kristov shook his head, looking almost irritated as he glanced at the wreckage around him. "But hopefully, I'll find something left over to sell to the Russians."

"I should have hunted you down back in Poland," Duncan snarled. 

A merc put an automatic into Kristov's outstretched hand. Kristov took it.

"Well," Kristov shrugged, "for you, that will be irrelevant in a few seconds." And his thumb flicked off the safety.

Duncan pulled futilely at his restrainer. The guard's hold on him was as complete as granite; there was no weak point to exploit.

"I apologize for not bringing my sword," Kristov continued. "But a weapon of this caliber should do the job nicely." He jammed the gun against Duncan's neck.

"I wouldn't do that."

The sharp voice cracked across the silence, just as Immortal Presence burst into life in Duncan's head. Duncan tensed: the Presence was impossibly stronger than before, thrumming like a thousand angry looms.

The men whirled around, rifles swinging toward the trees. Someone cursed. Kristov's gun didn't move from Duncan's neck, the muzzle pressing painfully into his flesh, but the guards' restraining hold on Duncan's arms loosened. Above the row of men blocking Duncan's view, a bluish light flared among the tree branches. Then one man took a step back, and Duncan saw Adam backlit against the trees, his one hand holding a brightly glowing blue cylinder away from his body.

"You were looking for this? Here, catch." And he tossed the cylinder to Kristov. As Kristov automatically reached to catch it, his gun twitched right of Duncan's neck. 

Duncan reacted instantly.

He twisted, grabbing the guard by the arm and driving his elbow into his gut, hard. As the guard toppled, he spun and kicked, slamming the merc on the other side of him into Kristov. It knocked the gun out of Kristov's hand, bullets racketing haphazardly into the trees.

Somewhere Adam had found a handgun and, with one hand, was using it with deadly accuracy. A man in front of him fell, blood gushing out from a hole in his neck. Another toppled, screaming, clutching his knee. Duncan dropped and kicked the legs from under the man aiming an automatic at Adam's head. He slammed his fist into the face of the man behind him.

Kristov snarled, shoving away the body on top him. He lunged for the glowing cylinder he'd dropped. Then he looked closer – and screamed, smashing it against a tree. His outraged eyes landed on Adam only a meter away – Kristov leapt, boot knife in hand. The other Immortal barely paused and put a bullet straight in Kristov's heart. Then Adam's eyes widened when he saw that the bullet didn't slow him down. Too late, Duncan realized that, due to the lack of Presence, Adam didn't know about Kristov.

"Adam! Kristov's Immortal!"

Adam fell back, twisting out of the arc of Kristov's knife, but the imbalance caused by his missing arm made him misjudge – he stumbled and gasped as the blade slammed into his chest. Fist jerking back Adam's head, Kristov yanked out the knife and raised it again, obviously intent on beheading the Immortal then and there. 

The last of Kristov's men fell, choking, before Duncan. "Kristov!" he roared, "Take his head, and I'll take yours!"

As he ran, Duncan saw Kristov suddenly jerk back and let Adam topple to the ground. He disappeared into the trees before Duncan could reach him.

"An aircraft's coming," Adam rasped, grimacing and pressing his hand against the wound in his chest when Duncan dropped down beside him. Duncan pressed his hand on top of his to help stop the bleeding. Sparks crackled over them. "That's what scared him off."

Sunlight was beginning to break over the mountaintop, reflecting off the snow. Turning his eyes away from the glare, Duncan saw a swiftly moving object approaching from the west. It didn't sound too military.

"It's the rescue team."

Adam grinned, mouth bloody. "He must have thought it was something else." He closed his eyes. "But we should probably get away from here."

Duncan agreed, glancing at the bodies of the mercenaries on the ground around them – too many questions would arise. Best to pretend to never have been here. There were people he could call to have his name be dropped from the plane's list of passengers. Though it would be a long and freezing trek down the mountain without a ride from the rescue team. 

But before that, one more thing...

"Where's Joe?"

"Not far from the cabin, against a tree, shielded by a sheet of aircraft-strength aluminum." Adam coughed a little. "Left him the blankets and everything."

The rescue aircraft was much closer now. Kristov's military aircraft lay exposed and prominent a few meters away. Soon, there would be visibility.

"I don't suppose you know how to operate that thing?" Duncan asked wryly. At the look the currently dying Immortal gave him, Duncan winced. "Right. Let's get out of here." He heaved Adam's arms over his shoulders and headed for a dead run toward the cover of trees.

When the trees gave out, with only an expanse of white slanting away below them, they found shelter beneath a brief, rocky outcrop. Clearing the snow that had drifted down into the spot, Duncan dropped the other Immortal to the ground and sat down beside him, shuddering as the sub-zero air froze the sweat on his skin. He moved, pressing as close as possible to the other Immortal share the body heat, but Adam's temperature was dropping rapidly. 

"Why did you come after me?" Duncan asked. "You were supposed to take Joe to safety and keep him safe."

The other Immortal's voice was low and tired, and sounded just a bit annoyed. "The man was once a soldier. He knew what to do. But if I'd stayed with him, we would have all been dead." Surprised, Duncan turned his head to look at Adam; Adam had his eyes closed, his mouth tight with pain. None of it showed in his voice. "Your Quickening. It would have arced over to me, exposed our hiding spot – and I would be in no condition to protect anyone."

Duncan grimaced; he supposed it was possible Adam had been within the range. "And the thing you handed over?"

"Just a flashlight. Tweaked it with a little trick I know. Impressive, isn't it?"

Duncan stared, not knowing what to think. That glow had been like no flashlight he'd ever encountered – good enough to fool Kristov. How had Adam known what kind of thing Kristov was looking for anyway?

Adam stirred sluggishly, reading the sudden tension of Duncan's shoulders. "It was only guess," he muttered. "We were lucky – Kristov had no more idea than I did."

By now the wounded man was already barely warmer than the surrounding air. Any other questions, like 'who are you' and 'what are you doing in the Watchers', would have to wait.

"How long before you revive?" Duncan asked quietly. He needed to know how long to stay on guard, before they could go on. He had no intention of leaving Adam by himself in this condition while Kristov was still around.

"...five minutes...at the most." Then Adam jerked away and coughed, blood splattering on the snow beside him. "Damn." He fell back against Duncan's shoulder. "I hate dying."

After a few seconds, the other man stopped moving. Duncan felt the skipping thrum of Presence in his head fade out. When Duncan shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position, the body that was slumped against him pitched forward toward the ground. Reaction dulled by exhaustion and the cold, Duncan barely caught Adam in time to save him from a bump on the head when the other Immortal revived.

"Five minutes, huh?" Duncan said to himself. He laid Adam softly on the ground. Then he drew his knees closer to his chest, as he started counting down the seconds underneath his breath. "300, 299, 298..."

...

The clatter of rocks startled Duncan awake.

He'd dozed off.

He barely felt the cold now – he knew then that he was coming dangerously close to freezing to death. Beside him, Adam body was still stiff and cold.

But Duncan felt the buzz of Immortal Presence in the back of his head. Bemused, thoughts still dull and sluggish, he bent down, moving to put a hand before Adam's nose to check for breathing.

The motion saved his life.

A bullet ricocheted off the rock behind him, stone flecks stinging his cheek. Duncan cursed, rolling away as Kristov jumped sideways at him from a neighboring ledge. Metal scraped against rock, sending sparks flying as Kristov dragged a sword along the stony ground. Somewhere Kristov had found a sword in addition to his gun. 

Outside of the sheltering outcrop, snow was falling thick and hard. Ducking behind a boulder, Duncan swore futilely. Old instincts sent a rush of heat through him, banishing the last of the cold-induced haze. Kristov was now between him and Adam, who still hadn't revived. It comforted him only a little to know Kristov wouldn't take the currently dead Immortal's head, since the resultant Quickening storm would leave him weak and helpless against Duncan. Why Kristov suddenly had his Presence again, Duncan pushed aside as irrelevant – except to mean beheading Kristov had a good chance of working as expected.

The thrum of Adam's Presence stuttered to life – and then stopped as a shot rang out.

"A bullet to the heart – " Kristov's voice echoed through in the air. "– That'll keep your one-armed friend down for a while. Long enough for us to conclude our little tête-à-tête."

Duncan cast about him for a weapon. Rocks and ice. Duncan's mouth tightened – it'd have to do. Quickly, he scooped up a stone and some snow, and began packing them into a ball.

"You killed my men. You ruined my plan." Kristov's voice was closer. "You have no idea how much trouble you've been."

A second ice-ball grew laboriously between his palms. Duncan forced his stiff and frozen hands to work faster.

"And you made me miss my usual dose – my skin itches like it's on fire."

Duncan could hear boots crunching now in the snow. He weighed an ice-ball in each hand, mapping out from the crunching of snow where Kristov was. Just a little closer...

"But I'm betting that'll go away nice and easy once I take your Quickening."

 _Now!_ Duncan lunged out from behind the boulder, just as another low-lying rock blocked the line of fire from Kristov's gun – he hurled two ice-balls in quick succession at Kristov's head.

Kristov's eyes widened at the unexpected projectiles, ducking aside the first only to smash directly into the path of the second. A brittle crack as stone fractured bone. He toppled backwards into the snow.

Duncan moved as fast as he could, legs shoving through the knee-high snow in order to reach Kristov before Immortal healing revived him. The first thing Duncan did was to jerk the gun out of Kristov's hands and throw it as far away as possible, where it vanished into the white expanse. The sword he picked up from beside Kristov's unconscious body where it'd been dropped when the Immortal fell.

Behind him, a few meters away, Duncan finally felt Adam's Presence thrum into life. 

"Your sword?" he asked Adam, turning to see the other Immortal walking towards him in the snow. He remembered how Kristov had mentioned he hadn't brought his own – this one must have been flung from the wreckage, and then been picked up by Kristov. The blade was simple and unadorned, the hilt a dull unpolished gray. But the edge was sharp enough.

Adam held his hand out for it. After hesitating for only a moment, Duncan handed the hilt to the other Immortal. Adam noticed the pause, and gave Duncan a small smile.

"The one Jill and I had bought at the auction. So yes, my sword now." Adam gripped the sword hilt tight, swung it once through the air. Cautiously, Duncan took a step back.

A groan came from the ground behind them as Kristov revived. Then Kristov saw them, eyes fixing instantly on the naked sword in Adam's hand. He scrambled to his feet, obviously intent on running. But he was much too slow, and Adam was fast and brutally efficient – he hamstrung Kristov with an almost negligent swing of the sword. Then, as Kristov writhed screaming in the snow, he walked over and struck off the man's right arm with one blow.

"Adam!" Duncan shouted. Killing Kristov was one thing. Torture was something else entirely. He stepped toward the two.

"Don't interfere, MacLeod," Adam snapped. He tore off the bandages still binding his leftover right arm and, baring his teeth, sliced off the healed-over end of the stump. Flesh and bits of bone splattered across the snow. Blue sparks danced over the sheared off remains of his right shoulder as Adam knelt and picked up Kristov's severed limb.

Duncan watched in slowly-dawning horror.

Even with the pain tightening the corners of his mouth, the other Immortal looked irked as he examined the arm. "It'll have to do," he muttered.

And he jammed the end of the limb firmly against his shoulder stump. Blue sparks snapped across the dividing line of skin. The smell of ozone and charred flesh filled the glade. His mouth opened in a soundless scream, lightening crackling over his entire body – almost as if caught in a storm of Quickening. Then abruptly, everything stilled.

Duncan, pushed back by the force of the transitory lightening storm, stumbled forward and grabbed Adam just as he pitched toward the ground. He almost dropped him; the other immortal's Quickening sizzled down Duncan's hands at the contact, stinging, before the last of the sparks flickered out. There was a soft thud as the sword finally dropped from the other Immortal's grasp. Then Adam stirred, raised both hands against his chest to push him away.

"Your arm," Duncan whispered, grabbing the right hand by the wrist. The entire right arm was mottled with a darker skin-tone – Ivan Kristov's skin tone.

For a moment Adam stilled, dropping his head against Duncan's shoulders. Duncan felt him shudder, once. Then he straightened and, forcefully, shook off Duncan's hold. "Get back," he said impatiently.

There was only one sword; there would be no proper Challenge. Duncan's mouth tightened, but he nodded. He let Adam go.

Adam picked up the sword and walked over to where Kristov was huddled trembling against the snow.

"Ivan Kristov," he said to the Immortal. 

When the Immortal looked up, Adam struck off his head with a single backhanded blow.

 

* * *

After stripping Kristov of his boots and heavy jacket – Duncan took the boots, Adam the jacket – they left him where he lay to be buried in the next fall of snow. It took them two days to trek all the way down the mountain to the nearest town. During that long, arduous journey, Duncan hadn't had the breath to ask Adam any more questions, concentrating instead on putting one foot in front of the other. The cold air gripped his chest, a stabbing pain with each breath he took. Yet freezing as it was, they both had to shed Kristov's things before reaching civilization, in case of any identifying tags from the clothes and boots. Only Immortal healing kept them cognizant as he and Adam stumbled into the town.

To the town authorities, Adam had spun a story about the two of them deciding to backpack across Europe – Adam had pulled off a startling impersonation of a callow, unemployed young student – and then getting lost in the mountain and losing all their supplies in the snow storm. Duncan had done the best he could, following what cues Adam gave him.

By then, the rescue team for the plane crash had come and gone, and the news had covered the catastrophe for several days already. The local televisions kept showing the front of the Budapest hospital where the only survivor was recuperating. The Hungarian government was attributing the plane crash to a terrorist attack by a local insurgent group. No other mention had been made.

They'd taken the train to Budapest that very afternoon.

Once in the city, Duncan's first destination was the hospital to see Joe. By then, 'Adam' had already slipped away unnoticed into the bustling way-fare of Hungary's capital.

"What's your real name?" Duncan asked quietly, as he clasped the man's hand in his in a gesture of comradeship and parting at the train station in Budapest. He'd had no luck getting anything personal out of the other Immortal, but Duncan thought he'd try anyway.

The other Immortal smiled crookedly, one corner of his mouth curving higher than the other. "Adam works just as well as any," he replied. He let go of Duncan's hand. "Take care of yourself, Highlander."

Duncan watched him disappear into the jostling crowd of travelers. The thrumming Presence in his head faded a moment later.

But somehow, he had a hunch they'd run into each other again.


End file.
